Pity me!
I’d like to believe I’ve weathered the storm of major surgery and all that entails fairly well. I’ve whined, sure, but I think I’ve kept it to a minimum. I have walked even when I didn’t want to, I gave up the narcotics early on and braved my way through with just advil, and I haven’t asked for (much) pity.
Well, now’s the time.
Last night, while my children were with their father, my father decided that I deserved a night out at a restaurant. A nice sit-down meal, at a place I wouldn’t take the kids. (That part was easy. I never take the kids out to eat.) He is one swell guy, my dad. I love him to pieces. And I do not blame him for the fact that both my stepmom and I had a very unpleasant gastronomical reaction to the cuisine at the restaurant we chose, you understand. It could’ve happened to anyone. But let’s face it, no one here is surprised that it happened to me. (Although I am sorry my stepmom was also afflicted, at least it saved me from searching the sky for my own personal cloud of locusts, this morning.)
It was a very long night. I spent most of it trying to decide which pains were stomach-related and which were surgery-related, and wondering just how much of a masochist I would have to be to go ahead and take some advil when my stomach was revolting. Also I had a bizarre nightmare-I-thought-was-real-til-I-woke-up where my father insisted that my stepmother had to be taken to a hospital… 400 miles away. Like I said; long night.
And the very saddest part of my sad sad tale that is so sad that you are in fact sobbing on my behalf this very moment? I missed the Haiku Smackdown for the second week in a row. Oh, the humanity!!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to walk outside. I suspect a large piano or maybe an industrial safe is going to fall on my head. Maybe I’ll chance some advil, first.
Edited to add: just in case a large object doesn’t smush me like a bug, if you’d like to leave me Fact and Fiction Friday queries here, I’ll address them tonight. No reason to miss that two weeks in a row, as well.
The Almighty Avocado
Today’s entry is inspired by the Blogging for Books contest over at The Zero Boss. This week’s subject is an act of compassion that changed your life.
I had always wanted children. I was the kid who kept babysitting well into high school because I just loved being around little kids; and I was the sitter they all clamored for because I didn’t talk on the phone and read fashion magazines, I played! Once I hit my twenties I became serious about seeking a man who was “mate material” and met my standards for being an excellent prospective father. I found the man who fit the criteria (I thought) and we were married in less than a year after our first date.
We were both in grad school, and knew kids would have to wait a bit. But we were unanimous in our parenting goals: kids, and lots of ’em! The more the merrier! As many as we could afford; the sooner the better. We waited the prudent almost-year after marrying and then threw birth control to the wind. And waited. And waited. And saw doctors. And were told we were young and impatient. And we waited some more. And some more.
And we told no one. Because it was somehow shameful, this. Not being able to get pregnant? At our ages? When we had played by the rules and been fine upstanding members of the church and our community? It didn’t compute. And if we didn’t talk about it, maybe it would go away.
And every month I spent a small fortune on pregnancy tests, and every month my period came and I cried. And we told no one.
And after well over a year, and having become somewhat numb to the entire ritual, I was late. And I tested. And it was positive. And my husband was thrilled, and I was terrified. We talked about it, and decided not to tell anyone until it was confirmed and documented and whatever else it is that doctors do to put a “genuine pregnancy” stamp on things.
So I went to the doctor and she confirmed I was indeed quite pregnant. And we decided to wait just a little bit longer to tell folks; just give it a little bit of time to let it all sink in. So we waited. And life went on. And with each passing day I felt more excitement and less fear, until finally just a couple of weeks before the end of the first trimester we decided it was time to tell the world.
We told our families. And I went to work and sent out a clever little email to my coworkers, inviting them to drop by my office for celebratory cookies. And my husband announced at his dissertation defense to the entire room that we were expecting. We divulged that this was not just any baby, but a long-awaited one, and we wanted to share our joy with everyone. And life was grand.
And far too many of you know how this story goes, I’m sure. I started to spot, we had an ultrasound, and our fears were confirmed. No heartbeat. Arrested development weeks earlier, which—it appeared—my body was refusing to recognize and tend to properly. With the shock still settling in around me, I was scheduled for a D&C, after which I developed a serious uterine infection.
There I was: home from work, living 3,000 miles from most friends and family, getting my first bitter taste of how my husband and I lacked the ability to support one another through a crisis. There was nothing to do but sit around and woulda-coulda-shoulda myself most of the way to insanity (the fever was helpful, there) as I wondered if I had just experienced my one and only pregnancy and would not, in fact, ever be a mother. Clearly my body was broken. I could not get pregnant; I could not stay pregnant. Hell, I couldn’t even recover from a simple procedure like a D&C with a little dignity. A message was being sent to me, loud and clear. It was all so at odds with what I’d always thought to be true, I felt I was on the brink of madness. This, I was sure, was how people lose their minds. There is a level of cognitive dissonance from which one just cannot recover. I spent I don’t know how many days trailing my fingers along that precipice, wondering when I would—inevitably—roll off.
I was saved by a bowl of guacamole.
My friend Andrea—a good and true friend, but a relatively new friend, at that time, from work—came over one afternoon as I lay listless on our sofabed, watching (sort of) television. I hadn’t showered in days. I also hadn’t eaten for several days, which I think my husband may have shared with her when she called prior to her visit. Anyway, Andrea showed up with a grocery bag, came and said hello to me in the living room, and then disappeared into my kitchen to make the biggest bowl of guacamole I’ve ever seen.
Among her many talents, Andrea makes a mean bowl of guacamole. Once it was complete she came and plunked herself down on the fold-out bed with me and asked what we were watching (I don’t remember). She brought the huge bowl of guacamole and an equally huge bag of tortilla chips, and a calming aura of complete and utter acceptance. She didn’t ask me how I was. She didn’t offer platitudes. She didn’t seem ill-at-ease. She didn’t try to cheer me up. And she came bearing one of my most favorite foods in the entire world.
Since that day—years ago—I have met many other amazing humans who have gone way above and beyond the call of duty in my life. What is notable about Andrea and the guacamole is this: Andrea was single, and had no interest in kids. It had been a running joke between us that she utterly failed to understand why in the world I wanted this so much. When the boom fell and I was surrounded by well-meaning people who had Been There and Done That and still had a remarkable ability to say and do the most insensitive things, the person who pulled me from the brink had very little understanding of what I was going through. Maybe that’s what made it easier for her; I don’t know. All she knew was that I was hurting. She knew I was hungry for something I wasn’t getting. And she knew that avocadoes would draw me out of my haze in a way that flowers and cards couldn’t. I don’t know how she knew what to do, but the simplicity of it was incredible.
We ate most of the guacamole, and played cards, and talked about nothing. We did speak, briefly, of my grief. I should say, I spoke and she listened. She heard me. She was with me; nothing more and nothing less. By the time she left, I no longer felt crazy. Sad, yes. Disappointed, angry, confused; of course. Still wounded. But whole.
A great while, two children, and many experiences later, I underwent a training course to become a Stephen Minister. It took me fifty hours of training to learn how to do what Andrea did for me those many years ago: listen, love, and just be there. (It is also worth noting that Andrea is a non-religious person; and as she is a fellow lover of irony I had to add that in.) In Stephen Ministry we are often characterized as “walking along” with a person in need. That is much more difficult for most of us than we realize. Had Andrea not done it for me, back then… well, even assuming I would’ve healed on my own (which I am not, by the way, convinced would’ve been the case), I would not have understood the necessity of this type of care. Now I aspire to it, all because of one bowl of guacamole.
Snippets
Monkey hopped in bed with me at 8:30 this morning (much later than usual; divine) after making a very wide circle around the bed while soliloquizing as only a four-and-a-half-year-old can about how he was going to be so very careful not to touch my ouchie belly and be very gentle with his nice Mama. Then he got in bed and snuggled up and patted me for a while.
Chickadee spent her day alternately mouthing off to me and clinging to me. I think I would like to understand what’s going on in her head, sometimes, but then I realize that with this complicated little one my heart is better off not fully getting it.
My skin hurts. Even in places it doesn’t appear to be bruised. I am aggravated with myself for not healing faster (as if I could control that, because dontchaknow I don’t have nearly enough reasons to beat up on myself; not being in control of my body’s rate of healing is a failure worthwhile of my concentrated self-loathing).
In the midst of what seemed like a very long day, I mustered what felt like my last ounce of energy, and walked down to the mailbox. I had six pieces of mail. They were all junk. I almost cried.
After I got the kids to bed tonight, I collapsed into the sofa and finished the first book I’ve read since before the surgery. It may not have been my best choice, but I finished it (which felt good) and it’s certainly a must-read for anyone feeling like life is hard or unfair. (Moral of the story: it could be much, much worse.)
Although I am still doing too much, it is heavenly to not have to cook meals or clean up after them. And better still to have other adults around.
“This is your conscience calling”
My conscience phoned me this evening.
My conscience is, of course, a dear friend who knows me too well. It was early suppertime, and my father was being Super Grandpa and making french toast for the kidlets, and I was merely taking bacon out of the package and spreading it on a paper-toweled plate in readiness for the microwave. Then the phone rang.
“Are you taking it easy?” she demanded. There I stood in my kitchen, phone in one hand, plate of bacon in the other, trying to open the microwave with my elbow.
“Yes, of course. We’re just making dinner for the kids.”
“We? I bet you anything your parents can do that themselves. You cannot push yourself! You need to be taking it easy! What are you doing?”
“I’m… uhhhh…” I slammed the bacon in the microwave and used my free hand to drag a chair over to the phone. I dropped into the chair. “I’m sitting down! I’m fine!” Now my dad was laughing at me, and ever the ham for Daddy, I stuck my legs out straight in front of me. “It’s okay! My feet are up!” Now my father was in virtual hysterics, I was giggling, and my conscience lectured on about how I will regret it if I do not take the proper care of myself during my convalescence.
Can I tell you how much I hate it when my conscience (real or imagined) is right?
It is 10:30 PM, and I haven’t had a nap today, and I should be asleep. But I am awake, and writing this entry, because I had a fabulous day with my children and my dad and my stepmom, and I feel like I hardly did a thing other than sit or stand around, maybe the stairs a few times, maybe some very light lifting, maybe a little more walking than before, I don’t know, and sweet lord Jesus I am in so much pain I cannot sleep.
So along with the 72 other little informational stickers on the bottle about not operating heavy machinery, drinking alcohol, or driving while taking vicodin, they should add another little cheerful sticker, perhaps with a keyboard icon, stating that the amount of time for it to take effect so that you can close your eyes and rest is just long enough to write in your blog.
And I thought, when I came up here to put my jammies on and such, that I was just imagining things or being a big wussy. (Both of which, by the way, may still be true.) But then I was getting changed and uhhhh… hmmmm… how do I put this delicately and in such a way that Genuine doesn’t start begging for a picture of my pubes, again? Well, when in doubt, out with it. Okay. I have several new bruises in my incision area. And as my dear sweet Monkey only used me for a fulcrum once today in a way that brought tears to my eyes, and the affected area is not one sporting a new mark, I can only conclude that my extended time today upright and in motion caused some bleeding… uuhhhhmmm… somewhere under there. Which is disturbing, to say the least. But does perhaps explain the excrutiating pain.
So now I am just completely screwed, because my conscience was right, and at some point my parents will read this and yell at me. But it is too much fun having them here and having the kids home to just lie around like an invalid! *grumblegrumblegrumble* *ow*
My 100th post: It’s All About the Hair
How momentous to cross this esteemed barrier on such a scholarly subject! But that’s just who I am… a woman who knows when to hold ’em, knows when to fold ’em… knows when to walk away… knows when to yap about my hair as if it were important. And I do it all for you, dear readers. Yes I do. So let’s get to it, shall we?
I have–I am told–gorgeous hair. It is thick and shiny and silky and curls into perfect corkscrews. And up until recently it was a beautiful mahogany; now it is a beautiful mahogany shot through with rather more silver than a woman of my age should have, but I think it adds character, don’t you? (Plus I used to dye it, and I don’t care what the big wall of hair color at Wallyworld claims, I will not find a perfect match to my color there no matter how long I look.) Just about everyone I have ever met has reached out and traced the path of one of my curls almost as if they couldn’t help themselves, and proclaimed, “People pay all kinds of money to have curls like this! You are so lucky!”
I am so lucky, that of course I started chemically straightening my hair the moment I could afford it. I hate my curls. Hate them with a passion! They frizz up in the heat and they dent in bizarre ways when I sleep on them and they tangle something fierce unless I keep it short, at which point I resemble a large poodle. I fought the battle of the curls longer than I could stand it, and then I discovered that I, Too, Could Have Straight Hair.
It’s quite simple, really. I pay an astonishing amount of money every three or four months to have my hair “relaxed” at the salon. This is a long and smelly process during which I read magazines and try not to pass out from the fumes and remind myself that I love having straight hair. After that, I return home. Where every other day I wash and condition and then gloop my hair with expensive straightening products, blow dry it out with my ionic hair dryer and round brush (the former costing about the same as a small boat; the latter running at about a week’s worth of groceries), and proclaim myself pretty! The system works pretty well.
The thing about having my hair relaxed, though, is that if I don’t go through the blow-drying ritual, I am left with… uhhhh… sad hair. My poor hair is now shunned by both the Rebel Curlies and the Cool Kid Straights, stuck in a purgatory of in-between. The corkscrews are gone, but my hair still has significant wave. And thanks the combination of modern chemicals and the fact that most everybody has different types of hair on their head (that accordingly respond more or less to said chemicals), my hair is curlier in the back than in the front, where some rogue locks will actually hang stick straight with no prodding. It’s a look that could only be most generously referred to as interesting.
So by now, you have either wisely stopped reading, or you’re thinking, “Hey Mir? Why are we talking about this? Why now?” And I assure you this is a very timely topic because I have spent an entire week in hair purgatory.
Spending 25 minutes with your arms in the air, drying your hair section by section, isn’t really on the list of Important Priorities after surgery. As you well know from my previous posts, taking painkillers, sleeping, and peeing are pretty much all I’ve been able to juggle this week. But as I have slowly improved I’ve managed a number of showers… after which I have watched my hair twist into some awful configuration and had only enough energy to combat it with a woman’s best friend in times of need: the ponytail elastic.
Well, my friends, I am here to tell you that yesterday I cleared a very important hurdle. I shaved my legs! Yes, I had to sit in the kids’ tub to do it. Yes, it took a long time. Yes, I had a moment of panic afterwards when I realized I wasn’t sure if I could, in fact, get out of the tub again. But by golly, I did it and lived to tell the tale. Now today, my dad and stepmom are arriving, and my children are coming home to stay, and really, the hair was the last obstacle between me and Some Semblance of Normalcy.
When my head isn’t in a bucket, nothing stands between me and my Semblance of Normalcy, dammit.
So, behold! It is Semi-Normal Mir! Fully cleansed! With straight hair! In deep need of a nap, now, but Back To Herself (Kinda)! It’s amazing how one little thing can make you feel so much more in control. And sooooooo exhausted. How many days do you suppose I can go without washing my hair again…?
Quotable Quotes
(Or, “The more things change, the more they stay the same”.)
Monkey: Nice Mama. *said while gingerly patting me all over, as if I were made of the most delicate porcelain, or perhaps hair-trigger explosives*
Chickadee: Want me to sing you a song I learned? It’s about my BUTT!
Monkey: Mama, you need to be resting. I get you a blankie.
Chickadee: I am not being fresh. I’m being mouthy.
Both *upon viewing my incision, which they had clamored to see*: Eeeeeewwwwwww! GROSS!!
Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Yay, yay, and hey–by the way–yay!
Yay 1: Despite a rather horrid night of asleep and not and nightmares and awake and general ikkiness, since rising this morning I have not considered vomiting even once. And I ate some breakfast, even! I mean, yes, okay; I still feel very much as though I was run over by a truck. But today I envision a small delivery van, perhaps something from FedEx Ground, rather than the large semi that had previously been featured in the Recurring Movie Of My Own Creation Explaining How I Came To Feel Like Complete And Utter Excrement. YAY!
Yay 2: I was able to corral my brain cells into attending to an entire DVD this morning! (Yes, I am aware that I am quite possibly the only person the planet who had not yet seen it. Shut UP.) (Besides, this way, I’m well prepared, now, to wait another two years before seeing the next one….) (Did I mention, shut up??) I did one single activity–granted, I pretty much only had to sit there, but still–for two and a half hours. Up until today, post-surgery, I was pretty lucky to hold my attention to an activity for about two and a half minutes. Besides enjoying the movie, this gives me great hope that they did not, in fact, accidentally remove my frontal lobe along with my uterus and peripheral organs. And there was much yay-type rejoicing!
Yay 3: The children will be landing in just a few hours, and I think I will have enough time to manage both a shower and a nap before they get here. At which time I am confident that I will smother them in so much ikky gooey Mama love that they will roll their eyes and beg me to stop. But not before I have kissed them a million gazillion times. It will be a lovefest of heretofore unknown proportions. And I will use every ounce of energy I can muster to drown them in a week’s worth of pent-up maternal instinct, and when I am just inches from death, they will leave again. And I will go to sleep. And tomorrow I will get up, and perhaps feel even a smidge better, again, and then they will come back, to stay. And my parents will arrive. And I will be delirious with joy!
I believe this is as close to perfect as life gets when there is an area of your body roughly the size of a basketball that is simultaneously numb and burning with the fiery heat of searing pain. Trust me.
Another exciting revelation… this one from the nurse on call
“Listen, honey. You’re our least favorite kind of patient. You’re young, you’re healthy, and you tend to just not get it that you’ve just had major surgery and it’s going to be a while before you feel yourself again.”
Well. That was edifying. Please allow me a moment to gather up my nausea, fever, pain, and–oh yes–my bruised and battered ego before meekly thanking you and hanging up the phone….
So that was yesterday afternoon, after which I did the smart thing, which was go to bed for the night. At about 4:30. It’s quite amazing what fiften and a half hours of sleep can do for you. You don’t really feel any better, afterwards; but there is security in the knowledge that you’re about half a day closer to “normal,” whenever that may be arriving.
All the narcotics are now out of my system, and I am surviving merely on mega-doses of advil. I was hoping that would help with the nausea. And it did, a little. Problem is, it appears that the main source of my nausea is this teensy little satanic hormone patch on my ass. The same patch that will stop me from growing a beard, dying of osteoporosis at 40, and all those other good things. Yeah, that one. Apparently the other major function of that “practically invisible” little disk is to make me feel like I’m on an airplane stuck in turbulence. All. the. damn. time. I am puzzled as to what is so redeemingly feminine about chronic pukiness, but then, I’ve never really understood much of what it means to be a fetching female in today’s society, so perhaps it will become clear to me later on. When I’m no longer walking around my house with a bucket for constant company.
(By the way: so far, mint in various forms seems to be the forerunner for best combatant. I will think of some reward for whomever suggested it… probably just my slavish and undying gratitude.)
Oh, I was also blaming the vicodin for the disturbing nightmares I was having, but I’m still having those, so I guess it wasn’t the drugs. Several nights in a row I had really terrifying dreams about my daughter (never my son; I wonder why that is) and woke up in a sweat. Last night I was free from witnessing a freakish accident befall my eldest while I watched but couldn’t act, but instead dreamt I was back in a junior high talent show and about to perform–as part of a very glittery and large-haired trio–a meaningful lip-sync routine to “Our Lips Are Sealed” by the Go-Gos. Granted, still nightmarish, but I am striving just to be pleased that it didn’t involve my child. Small favors, and all that.
In other news: I need to pull myself together by tomorrow. My children are coming home! It may be the hormones… in fact, let’s go right ahead and blame it on those evil hormones, let’s! But I got off the phone with my offspring last night and bawled like a baby. My son–who is quite possibly the most adorable boy-child ever to walk the planet and don’t argue with me because anyone who has ever met him will tell that it is so–started doing the whole “I sending you lots of hugs! Here they come! You catch them? Don’ worry, I got more here in my pocket, but I will take them out tonight so Grammie don’t put them in the washing machine cuz then they get all gooey!” And I got a little sniffly. But he is a lovebug by nature, so I held it together, and sniffled bravely, and soldiered on. But then my daughter–little miss I am far too independent to require actual love unless I’m sick or have a booboo–told me she missed me and started making kissy-sounds into the phone. And I was a goner.
Up until that moment, I’d been too busy either anticipating the surgery or dealing with the pain to actually miss them in a palpable way. But then, move over evil pukey hormones! There’s a new bone-crushing force in town! And its name is “I want to hold my babies!” *sniffle*
So. Then. Today will be about baby steps, and working my way back to human. I can do this. I will do this. Besides, I’m way too much of an anal perfectionist to be anybody’s “least favorite kind of patient,” dammit. I feel an Irene Cara song coming on! Oh wait, it’s easy to confuse that with the nausea… hang on… okay, I’m alright.
Houston, we have… clean pits!
Another exciting day of progress here at Post Op Central.
It is barely 11:00 AM, and I have been up! I have eaten crackers! I have had nice cold water! I have showered! I have shaved my armpits for fear of frightening visitors if I didn’t! I have donned the silky soft loungewear that Jill and Mindy sent me! (I love them, the loungewear and the ladies, and I wish to marry them all!) I have seriously considered vomiting! But I haven’t! Yet! Still considering! Stay tuned!
I have a visitor coming in about an hour, which is probably just enough time for me to get downstairs and… ummmm… die… before she arrives.
Anyone who leaves me a nausea-battling tip that works will win my undying gratitude….
Scintillating recovery news!
There is big news happening here in my house, and I know that there are hundreds–nay, perhaps thousands–of you out there, waiting with baited breath to hear every thrilling detail of my miraculous recovery. I do not wish to disappoint or even leave out a single marvelous detail of this riveting journey, so I am here to relay every moment with the full fanfare each of those moments so richly deserves. I am. I will. Just as soon as I pry the cap off of this bottle and take a couple more of these magic pills which take me from wanting to curl up and die all the way to giggling a little while I wonder if it might be a good idea to curl up and die.
It’s been kind of a long day.
But the good news is, Lee and the missus have welcomed their newest bundle of joy! Stop reading my drugged ramblings here and go congratulate them!
Anyway, back to my day. Well. It’s been very exciting. My phone rings a lot, mostly when I’m sleeping. So I answer the phone and someone who loves me tells me how good I sound, and I play along until they stop talking. Then I hang up the phone and wonder who just called me, and then I fall asleep again. That’s sort of fun.
Then, of course, there is my very busy schedule of hobbling to the bathroom to pee because I can’t remember if I’ve peed recently or not. It’s very important to empty the bladder regularly so as not to get a bladder infection, you know. After abdominal surgery there would really be no way to know if you have a bladder infection, anyway, because everything already hurts so much there’s no way you’d notice, but there ya have it.
So that all keeps me very busy, but somehow I manage to sandwich in Puzzling Over Intake, too. That consists mostly of staring at the little bottles on my nightstand and trying to remember what I took when, and can I have some more now and if not, when can I? Also I hobble into the kitchen periodically and grab something and bring it back to my bedside and consider eating it because I suspect there is a large hole being burned into my stomach from all the wonderful meds I am taking without eating. I have all sorts of yummy foods here and they all taste like… yellow jello. I think my taste buds have been permanently scarred from the Liquid Diet experience.
Oh, I also seriously considered taking a shower. That took up a good portion of my day. It merited serious consideration for an extended period of time. In the end, though, I opted for a nap instead. To compensate, I brushed my teeth about four times (that was easy enough, since I was in there peeing five hundred times, anyway).
It’s amazing how a full schedule like that can make a day just fly by. Will ya look at that… bedtime, already? Wow. Well, I am feeling a bit fatigued. I really shouldn’t push myself, so.